Mother has always called me her little cinnamon roll, I'm not exactly sure if it was my love for cinnamon rolls, the funny way I said cinnamon, or the fact I was a sweet little child and could do no wrong in anyone's eyes for her to call me that. But I don't really care anymore, she made my eldest sister cut her hair and dye it because that man started paying more attention to her then Mother. She wanted my sister to suffer for, in Mother's own words, "A fucking slut and an attention seeker!" I felt bad for my dear sister, she didn't want any trouble and she tried to keep mother and that man happy. She didn't mean any harm.
Sister's hair was as short as my second oldest brother, her hair was dyed to a black-ish gray color. She cried night after night over her hair and I could hear her sob since my room was right next to hers. The night she stopped sobbing was the night she disappeared, no one even said a word about why or how she could've gone missing. "No one cared." The night after the incident I sore on my own soul I would never cut or dye my hair unless necessary for my own survival and for the survival of those I cared about most. Missing.
